Going Under
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "He was pretty sure after this morning's discovery and the not-so-whispered argument about accessory price points for last-minute hickey concealment, this was going to be one of those days where everyone was wondering why they were suddenly observing Catholic school dance standards for personal space." Under the Influence (5x11) 4-shot M-rated epilogue: Underneath (separate post)
1. Chapter 1

Title: Going Under

WC: ~3000

Rating: T

Summary: "She's just going to have to fax him a schedule or something. Because he was pretty sure that after this morning's discovery and the not-so-whispered argument about accessory price points for last-minute hickey concealment, this was going to be one of those days where everyone was wondering why they were suddenly observing Catholic school dance standards for personal space"

Spoilers: A post-ep for "Under the Influence" (5 x 11), but it's really a different POV for the ep, so not a lot in the way of spoilers.

A/N: For Jessie/Cartographical, who was . . . displeased with the lack of Caskett screentime.

* * *

It wasn't his fault. Yes, as she had pointed out—repeatedly throughout the course of the morning—a jury would convict him based on dental evidence alone, but it wasn't _deliberate._ Not on his part, anyway.

He's reasonably sure there had been a great deal of deliberation on her part. From the faintest hint of perfume in a non-traditional location to the way she'd kept sweeping her hair over one shoulder to the asymmetrical neckline and that _color _against her skin, there's a strong circumstantial case for deliberation on her part.

And that was leaving her manual dexterity and the fact that she's apparently really, _really_ confident in her knowledge of sight lines in various parts of the precinct out of the equation entirely. So if there's a question of fault, it's all hers.

He _might_ be willing to call it a team effort. Maybe. And in that spirit, he'd made a dash for the boutique and picked up the scarf, even though with the way the neckline fell on her sweater today, it was totally fine. And he was more than prepared to assert his exclusive rights to stare at . . . that particular region if the need arose.

But she still whipsaws from one extreme to the other as far as PDAs and keeping things on the down low at work go. Case in point: The current situation started with him going about his business, trying to buy a soda and suddenly finding himself a wedged writer in great tightness on the far side of the vending machines and, really, sight lines are one thing. Disembodied invocations of multiple gods emanating from somewhere in the neighborhood of the Mountain Dew and Pop Tarts are another issue entirely.

And she has surprisingly fair, delicate skin. Especially right . . .

Anyway, a tiny little mark right where her . . . Well, at the time it seemed like the lesser of two evils. And it's hardly noticeable at all. And don't women have make-up for these things?

The scarf was overkill to begin with, so it's really unfair that he's in trouble over that, too. Leaving the price tag on was definitely a rookie mistake, but she'd gone on and on about the two of them staggering their arrival at the precinct, and he still had to get their coffee, and he was in a _hurry._ Plus, it's not like he can't afford it. Of course, making that argument was a rookie mistake, too.

But he knows she likes it. The scarf. She's been running her fingers over it all day. Holding it out against the deep blue of her sweater and admiring the play of the pattern against it. Absently tipping her head to the side and letting her cheek glide back and forth over it. . . .

And right now he really needs to think about something other than her fingers and the softness of her cheek and the way her hair is conveniently swept up, leaving the hills and valleys of her neck bare. Just _begging _him to . . .

He might need a hobby. An at-work hobby. Maybe he'll take up whittling.

* * *

She's just going to have to fax him a schedule or something. Because he was pretty sure that after this morning's discovery and the not-so-whispered argument about accessory price points for last-minute hickey concealment, this was going to be one of those days where everyone was wondering why they were suddenly observing Catholic school dance standards for personal space. (As if _that_ doesn't draw way more attention than acting the same way they had practically every day for four years, but there's no reasoning with her when she's like this.)

Not that he has any interest in reasoning with at this particular moment, given that she seems really sure that the angle of the lights in this particular interview room means that they're not casting shadows on the blinds. Sure enough that she's indulging in some seriously inspired writhing and moaning. So reasoning is not at the top of his to do list.

She must be pretty confident about the soundproofing, too, come to think of it. Hopefully confident about the soundproofing. Otherwise, he'll be making that scarf an even better investment before too long.

Not that it hasn't already proven itself to be the Little Scarf that Could. He can personally attest to the integrity of the fabric's weave and the fact that it doesn't chafe a bit. He makes a metal note to talk knots with her at a more opportune time. Not mention ask why this interview room even _has_ that D-ring bolted to the wall and where she learned to do _that_ . . .

But all that can wait until her mouth isn't otherwise occupied in much worthier pursuits. Until he can make sentences again. And that might be a while, despite the fact that he is, even now, running through every single grammatical rule he has ever learned or forgotten. In English and Latin. For reasons. Yeah, sentences are a distant prospect on the horizon.

Anyway, for right now he's just going to trust her instincts about the soundproofing in here.

Maybe he should have bought two scarves.

* * *

He's going to burn the damned thing. Yes: It's a building full of detectives, as she's fond of reminding him. Fond of reminding him when she's not testing his flexibility and endurance in dark, cramped spaces with sub-ideal temperature control, anyway.

It's not like he doesn't have total respect for everyone here and how good they are at their jobs. But, really? Three separate observations that she'd come back from her "break" with her scarf tied differently. That there was a slight warp in the pattern now, like the fabric had been under considerable stress. That one corner seemed to have a small stain. Probably pipe joint lubricant. _Probably pipe joint lubricant? _Who knew that on sight?

It's curious that not a single person has commented on the two extra buttons he had to do up before he came back from his "private phone call." (Yeah, that one was hers, too. Apparently today's MO is retaliate in haste, blurt out completely implausible cover stories at leisure. When has he _ever_ excused himself for a private phone call? For that matter, since when does she go further than the coffee maker on her break?)

So here he is, practically strangling on his shirt collar, and not a word from anyone. So why is everyone so fixated on _her_ wardrobe all of a sudden?

He has his own theory about that. It has to do with the fact that she is the very opposite of stealthy when it's one of those days when she's sure that the hammer is about to come down. That they're about to be busted.

Stealthy is not her middle name on those days, and does she really think people don't notice that she's keeping her entire desk between them and not holding up her end of the banter? Because people come for the case, but they stay for the banter. And nothing says _Hey, guess what? We've recently gotten to know each other in the Biblical sense!_ like leaving your co-banterer hanging. Building full of detectives, right?

But now is probably not the time to bring any of that up, because he's reasonably certain that she's compiling a list of ways to kill him in her head. She's fingering the scarf and not in a dreamy,_ reliving-some-recent-highlights_ way. More like an _I-wonder-if-pipe-joint-lubricant-is-a-good-accelerant_ kind of way.

Yeah. Maybe he'll burn the damned thing as a precautionary measure.

* * *

She's crossed the line into ridiculous. He's calling her on it. Or he will be calling her on it when he's not locked in a stall in the men's room trying to sew three of his shirt buttons back on with one of those crappy little hotel sewing kits.

He will also probably be calling her on it by phone or from some yet-to-be-determined minimum safe distance, given that she has no sense of proportional response at all. She's all about swift, sudden retaliation. And escalation. She's really into escalation, and he hopes the furrows on his back are not actively bleeding. Somehow he can't see invoicing her for new shirt.

He's going to need more than a schedule. She's just going to have to fax him the whole set of rules to her little game.

Apparently the extra buttons had been bothering her as much as they'd been bothering him. It's a miracle he managed to find them at all in the remodeling chaos down in Robbery. Two of them anyway. He's harvesting the third from one of his cuffs. Or he will be if he can get the pathetic little scissors to work.

Not that she gives him any credit for ingenuity or situational awareness under duress. No, it's all criticism and freak outs about missing hairpins. Which, incidentally, he had _nothing_ to do with. How could he have? He'd had his hands behind his back the whole time because she'd forbidden him to use them under threat of unspecified punishment.

And, hey, he likes a challenge. And she seems to appreciate—really enthusiastically appreciate—his ingenuity in some areas, but the point stands: He had nothing to do with the missing hairpins and her hair _does _look fantastic without them. Just a little softer. A little looser . . . and are the good taxpayers of New York really getting their money's worth from an entire squad of detectives bringing their highly trained skills to bear on every last fricking detail of her appearance?

At any rate, he's happy to admit that "sex-mussed" was probably a poor choice of words in trying to convince her that her hair looked great. And given scarf!gate, his argument that nobody would even notice probably sounded a little hollow. He'd even concede that maybe hair-related compliments might have been better kept to himself at this juncture.

And if she'd given him any idea which kind of day this is—the kind of day when the whole secrecy thing was a giant turn on or the kind of day when life as they know it is about to be extinguished—he might have known that.

But she's all over the map and whatever he did or said, none of that changes the fact that she is being _ridiculous_ in so many ways.

* * *

So. This one's pretty much on him. He's not trying to deny that, but it's really not as bad as she's making it out to be.

_Oh, hell._ It's bad. It's pretty bad.

It started with the hairpins. He's prepared to admit that she was 100% right about the hairpins. She was right, and they were completely mission critical when came to keeping him from absolutely losing his shit over that confluence of skin and soft royal blue. And with the drape of scarf and that long, trailing curl . . . well . . . she was right and he was wrong.

And he probably could have waited to show her his new discovery, but he'd been pretty proud of his detective work. It started with strange sounds just barely audible from the men's room. He'd followed them along the ductwork and almost gotten fooled by some crossing conduit, but eventually: _Voila! _An entirely unsecured, practically empty machine room that he'd never seen before. And he just wanted to know if she knew about it. Because she seemed to know about every other single place in the precinct and . . . yeah . . . he maybe wanted to show her up a little.

But she was the one who insisted on seeing it for herself. He just figured it was safe. Relatively safe, anyway. Just one kiss at the very top of her shoulder blade. And sex-mussed hair or no, it should have been safe, given that he'd been sewing buttons back on his own damned shirt less than an hour ago.

But that didn't seem to make any difference to her. She was all hands and firmly worded demands, and then it didn't make any difference to him either all of a sudden. There's going to have to be a conversation in their near future about the fact that he has a decade on her and there are certain anatomical limitations on guys. Usually there are limitations. Limitations, to his frequent surprise lately, seem to be on vacation.

Limitations or no, though, he's never opposed to making it all about her.

Which is kind of how this one ends up being on him.

He hadn't realized it was a front clasp, and for some reason, those have always given him some trouble. And not that he doesn't take full responsibility, but did she really have to keep emphasizing how much time pressure they were under? And there had to be some pretty shoddy workmanship on that clasp, too. How could he have _known_ it would just snap like that?

Yeah, it's on him. And he's sorry.

He'd really thought he could MacGyver something with a binder clip, but she'd been right about that, too. The bump was totally obvious and badly positioned. Although, again—exclusive looking rights. Right? No one else should be looking there.

He really _is_ sorry—completely sorry—about the upshot of it all. Going . . . woman commando under a sweater cannot be comfortable. A _cashmere_ sweater, but still. _Chafe-y. _

He's really, _really _sorry about that. He suspects he'll be even sorrier before the day is out.

* * *

She can't just send him home. If _anyone _should go home it's her. All he's missing is a single measly button, and all of his active battle scars are well concealed. She's the one traipsing around minus a foundation garment with a giant hickey right . . .

Not giant.

Well.

Ok, it's kind of giant. It just _seemed _smaller when she was yanking down the neck of her sweater and demanding that he just take a good, hard look at what he'd done.

Or maybe it's gotten bigger over the course of the day. He's been careful. He's _tried _to be careful, but _jeez_. It was one ill-lit location after another and then explicit instructions not to use his hands and he _finally _figured out exactly where she'd spritzed on that perfume and _come on. _How could it _not _be bigger at this point?

At any rate, it makes no sense for him to be the one who gets sent home. Other than the fact that she's the one who actually works there, of course. Gets paid to work there. He works _plenty. _Especially lately.

But the fact that she's the actual employee is the reason—the _only_ reason—he's leaving of his own free will. Ok, that and the fact that Espo is all over this case, so there's hardly anything for them to do. Plus, it's, like, 5:30 or something already, and she's spent about 7 minutes total at her desk today, so it's a good thing Espo's on top of things. Cop-related things.

If he leaves now, he'll have time to swing by _L'Occitane _to see if they have anything for sensitive skin or irritation from natural fibers. And he might ask some discreet questions about concealer. Just for future reference.

He should still have time to do some things around the loft, too. Get a fire going, pick a bottle of wine that's good enough but won't restart the price-point argument, kick his mother out. Housekeeping stuff.

So he's _going _home. She's not _sending_ him home, because that would be stupid and totally unfair and one more damned thing pretty much guaranteed to get them busted.

He scowls back up at the precinct building as he passes out on to the street and tries to decide if it's worth grabbing a cab. It might not be a bad idea to walk off a little of the day's . . . well . . . _frustration _isn't exactly apt. Except it is.

He looks left and right and arbitrarily heads with the flow of most of the traffic. It's New York. He'll end up where he wants to eventually. His attention is on his phone. He's trying to decide between the_ L'Occitane_ on Bleecker and the one on Spring, so it takes him a while to register that someone is very politely trying to get his attention.

He stops, ignoring the irate glares of the commuters that pile up behind him, then veer to one side or the other. "Jeff?"

The driver touches the brim of his hat. "Mr. Castle."

"Uh . . . hey," Castle looks at him in confusion. "I think there's been a mix up. I didn't call for a car."

"No sir. Someone else made arrangements," the big man says. He's clearly a little uncomfortable at being cryptic, which doesn't really do much for Castle's confusion. By nature, Jeff is the very opposite of cryptic.

"Arrangements?"

Jeff nods and his skin flushes to a deeper shade. "Yes, sir. Um . . . the doors are unlocked, so you can get settled and we'll be on our way."

And with that, Castle goes from confused to alarmed.

Jeff is absolutely gender blind and inflexible about the whole door-opening thing. With a gun to his head, Castle cannot imagine the driver suggesting that a client so much as touch his own door.

_Gun_!

"Jeff," he whispers frantically. As close to whispering as is possible in the middle of a Manhattan rush hour. "Is this . . . is this a _hostage _situation?"

The back passenger door bursts open just then, and he hardly has time to register his familiarity with the stack-heeled boot that emerges before he's being hauled inside and . . .

_Oh! _Wow. That is _totally _giant. And that sweater really doesn't hide a thing. If anything, the blue really sets it off. He can see that now. Mostly because she's straddling his lap in total disregard for New York's seatbelt laws, so it's kind of . . . right there in all its totally giant glory.

"Um . . . no more scarf?" He manages to choke out the words because one of them should probably say something.

She doesn't seem concerned about conversation. She just produces the scarf from behind her back and captures his wrists.

She's going to be the death of him. She is _seriously_ going to be the death of him, but hopefully not in the immediate future.

He gives his hands up to her willingly. "So it _is_ a hostage situation."

"Never said it wasn't, Castle."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Uh. Yeah. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but Beckett demanded to be heard.

For Jessie/Cartographical (because friends don't let friends snap fingers) and all the talented, committed writers and artists who are on board with making Castle: Clandestine Nookie Unit a reality.

* * *

He complicates things.

Any complaints she has about the last seven months—about the last four years—all come down to that. He complicates things.

His attention caroms around wildly on any topic, in any situation, and then snags. He fixates on the minutest detail, and the one thing she just needs to get _done_ becomes complicated.

Like now, for instance. He's been driving her absolutely insane—_insane_—all day. Arguing with her. Calling out big-picture gaps in her theory when they've got squat in the way of the little picture so far. What they _do_ have is mostly distilled from some of his more inspired (read lunatic) logical leaps that have just happened to pay off. And doesn't _that _just put a smirk on his face?

It amounts to him winding her up all damned day. All. Damned. Day. So what did he expect?

Apparently not an ambush behind the vending machines. And, come _on_, Castle. Connect the dots.

Credit where credit is due, though. He goes from girly scream and a lack of coordination that borders on adolescent to 100% on board in seconds. And she knows full well that _he _knows full well exactly how to take her from here to there _now_. But everything's a production with him.

Given half a chance, _everything_ is a production. So instead of double checking her shirt tails one last time and running a hand through her hair on her way back to her desk with some hope in hell of concentrating on this case, she's tugging at his hair, and his teeth are nipping their way to center from the outpost of her right shoulder and his fingers are climbing up, skipping from rib to rib, and he's talking _nonsense. _This low, steady rumble that travels over her skin.

This was supposed to take five minutes, tops. Five minutes to a clear mind and, yes, a different kind of smirk on his face, but . . . priorities. She needs to focus and this is the quickest way.

It was _supposed _to be the quickest way. But he has her joining in now. Call and response. He's coaxing little strings of words out of her and something—some sound—that skates along the edge between a laugh and a whimper. It's an assault. A production. Everything's a production.

She just wants to scream. In more ways than one, she wants to scream.

* * *

He always has to fix things.

He can't just give her five minutes to be well and truly mad at him for the ridiculous situations he gets them into. Gets _her _into. Because it's her chest, and there's no reason anyone should connect him to anything concerning her chest, right? No connection between him and her chest as far as anyone at the precinct is concerned. That's the whole damned point.

And it's not like he's sorry. Oh, he _says_ he is. He tips his head down and looks up at her through his lashes and thinks she doesn't know that he's working it.

And he's all about fixing things. He's craning to get a look inside her bag, even though he's already gotten his hands slapped away for being nosy. He's opening and closing the glove compartment and rummaging through the door wells and every little slide-out cubby in the armrest. In the dash board. In the whole damned car. Like she keeps concealer for hickey emergencies in her cruiser. Like any woman over the age of sixteen keeps concealer for hickey emergencies anywhere.

But he's not sorry. His mouth is running. Ridiculous solutions and promises that have her biting the inside of her own cheek to keep from laughing. Because he can't just let her be pissed off that she's a grown woman trying to hide a _goddamned hickey_ that she would have realized needed hiding if he hadn't made her late this morning. If he hadn't turned something really _simple_ into a Richard Castle production in the first place.

No he's not sorry. She can see his mind working. His eyes keep flicking toward it, then back up to hers and that is _not _helping. He plucks at the sides of her sweater and rearranges the neckline like he can bend geometry to his will. She really needs to get out of this car, right now, because, she's already on the verge of being late and he's _got _to stop touching her. And looking at her. And trying to _fix _it because she just wants to be mad at him.

He's not sorry, he's . . . interested. The ways he can help—his dozen genius plans to fix this—are still streaming off his tongue, but she knows that look. He's mentally rifling through his adjectives. He's cataloging it. Color, contrast, location, shape. The sounds she was making. The sounds he was trying _not _to make, which is why this is his fault.

Which is why she'd like five freaking minutes to be mad at him. Because he gets so fixated on her—on his own battle plan—that he doesn't pay attention. And it's pathetically easy to turn him into a babbling, high-pitched mess.

And she doesn't care if that might have been a stupid move on her part. She doesn't _care _if "stifling" was the lesser of two evils. She doesn't care if it's ludicrous that she apparently can't go two hours without a fix some days—most days—because none of this would be happening if he didn't complicate every damned thing.

She's _mad_ at him and she has every right to be. But right now, she has to get out of this car.

* * *

It works. She has to give him that. It works with the sweater. The color, the pattern. The weight of the fabric and its drape. The proportions and geometry of it. It's all . . . . well, it does the job.

But it's also gorgeous, and she has this giddy, warm feeling bubbling up in her chest. Every time she sees it out of the corner of her eye. Every time she feels the softness of it swinging against her skin.

It's the way he pays attention that gets to her. Obvious, right? He's the writer. She's the subject, so _obviously_ he pays attention. But it's more than that. It's completely her. No gauzy, trailing edges that will snag on every last thing. It's feminine, but not frilly. The pattern is unusual. All interplay of colors and light. Everything about it is her, but it's not just that. It's something else, too.

It's a little less severe than something she'd have chosen herself. Not softer, exactly. The blue is too intense, the pattern too bold for that. By it's elegant. It complements her coloring and highlights the strong set of her shoulders. It brings out the things he sees in her. The things he murmurs into her hair and against her hip and all along the sharp margin of her shoulder blade.

And it cost a ridiculous amount of money. A _ridiculous_ amount.

She'd been in a hurry. Obviously so had he. He'd been impatient with her sloppy attempts to just tie the damned thing. Said she looked like a cowgirl with low self-esteem trying to strangle herself with a bib, and everyone would know she was hiding something. Well she _is_ hiding something, isn't she? And whose 14-year-old-with-no-self-control fault is that?

Then he'd insisted on doing it himself. And _that_ went nowhere good (there wasn't _time; _he_ knew _that). And then she was _really_ in a hurry. On the verge of being regular late, not just Kate Beckett late (_not_ that she concedes there is such a thing). She'd torn herself away, leaving him disheveled and both of them more than a little frustrated.

She'd been absently toying with the discreet little tag for a while, trying to find some focus, before she realized what it was. His timing couldn't have been worse. She'd just accepted that, no, there was no missing decimal point. That he'd never have told her how much it cost if she hadn't found the tag. That she wouldn't have asked. And that's when he showed up, coffee in hand and a completely awestruck look on his face. Not for long, though.

She'd like to kick him. For being so clueless. For thinking it was ok to spend half her paycheck on something like that. For having no idea how something like that must _look_. For being right that it doesn't "look" like anything to anyone, because no one who doesn't _know_ them knows _about_ them, and no one who _does_ know would care. For giving her a headache by using "know" that many times in a single, grammatically correct sentence.

She'd like to kick herself. For getting into it like that practically in the middle of the bullpen. For not being over the money thing. For not really doing much to get it out in the open between them. For hurting his feelings.

It really is gorgeous.

* * *

There's something seriously wrong with him. She's raking her nails down his bare back and he's _still _asking logistical questions. Like she'd be using an interview room for this if she hadn't thoroughly scoped it out? Like she isn't absolutely sure that no one will be anywhere near here in the next half hour? Like they aren't on a _schedule_ here?

It's not that he's not invested. His hands, his lips, and a good 70% of the nonsense rolling off his tongue are totally dedicated to the team effort, and he has her panting and practically climbing the walls as he skims along the surface of her. He's invested.

But this is how it goes so much of the time. This is how his mind works, spinning along three or four different threads at once, and she can't help but follow. Can't help but laugh and answer when he asks some bizarre question out of the blue. Can't help but sing the next snatch of melody back to him, give the required rejoinder, or join in the strange conversation. Even when she's three quarters out of her mind under his hands, his body, she can't help it.

All part of the Richard Castle experience. But she thinks she has his attention now. All of it, though it it required a tour of the amenities of this little-used end of Homicide's floor. And some strategic refocusing of his energies. Maybe the scarf was worth its heart-stopping price tag after all. It quieted him down. Not in the obvious way, either. Although . . . No. It's probably dry clean only. Has to be.

It's doesn't matter at the moment, though. She has his attention. Oh, she _definitely_ has his attention, and the shift is so abrupt, so complete, that she's hiding a smile against the low sweep of his ribs. Nipping and enjoying the contrast between the sudden quiet the way they rise and fall erratically with the urgency of his breath.

Because he _is_ quiet. Quiet for him, but his mind is still going and going and going. His fingertips are drumming against her neck in a desperate rhythm, but every once in a while they still under her jaw. Like he's going to tip her chin up and ask her something.

And that's just about enough of that. They're on a schedule.

* * *

It's bullshit. The double standard is pure bullshit. Because not a single person has said a single word to him despite the fact that he's stumbling around, slack jawed and glassy eyed. _And_ he's made at least two grammatical errors in the last ten minutes. He's a mess, and no one has said anything. Not. One. Word.

And if anyone has noticed that he came back from his "phone call" with his shirt practically buttoned up to his eyebrows, they're not saying a word about that either. She should probably feel guilty about that. Or at least admit he has a point about stifling and priorities when avoiding detection. She should probably acknowledge that her response to the events of the last 24 hours might—_might_—have been a little over the top so far.

But apologies and admissions will have to wait, because every single person in Homicide, and a handful of visitors from Robbery have been in her face since she got back. What the hell are the guys from Robbery even doing up here? Other than going over her wardrobe like it's a crime scene. Maybe they know she can't afford this stupid scarf. Maybe they think she stole it.

It's draped left over right now. The scarf. The _stupid, _gorgeous scarf. Yes, she should have thought about that when she shooed Castle away and retied it herself, but how the hell does that even come up in conversation? Isn't anyone here actually working a homicide? Because she's pretty sure there's at least one active case.

Granted, Esposito is all over theirs. _Oh._ Stolen property. That explains the assist from downstairs. But don't the rest of them draw a salary for something other commenting on smudges the size of a pencil eraser on their colleagues' accessories? _Shit. _It's got to be dry clean only. Is that even going to come out?

They're messing with her. All of them. It's the only explanation. The only explanation for why the _hell_ her wardrobe is the hot topic of conversation all of a sudden. They all know, and they're messing with her and everything is about to blow up in her face.

He looks pretty miserable about it all. And it's not just the buttons. At least he has the decency to look miserable. Sheepish. To be annoyed on her behalf every time some new scarf-related piece of evidence comes up. He can't believe it either and he shoots her a look that's half apology, half WTF?

There's a little bit something else, too. Not _that. _(Well, a little bit of that. There's always been a little bit of _that_. Which is probably how everyone knows and why they're all messing with her.) But it's like he's . . . exasperated with her?

_He's_ exasperated with _her_?

* * *

She's not sure what she was thinking, forbidding him to touch her. Forbidding him to use his hands in any way. It was supposed to be a conversation, that's all, and a no-touching rule seemed like a sensible way to keep them out of trouble.

She should have known something was up when he agreed to it so readily. When he tucked his hands behind his back and gave her his best innocent smile. And if that's his best, she doesn't know how he's ever gotten away with anything in his whole life. Then again, she's backed up against a bookshelf or something with her sweater rucked most of the way up, and she's never been so grateful for a drop cloth in her life. So apparently there's a lot she doesn't know.

The problem is she left him his words. Some part of her must have realized what a truly stupid idea that was. Some part of her must have wanted . . . not this exactly. Or maybe this exactly. This, exactly, especially right now, is pretty spectacular.

Some part of her must have been counting on this. It's not like she doesn't know how much trouble his mouth can be in any number of ways. Even still . . . even still, he's really, _really_ on his game.

She suspects it has something to do with the venue. For him and for her, however stupid that is. Being down in Robbery probably has something to do with it. Because they've had it out over that. Her lousy timing with Demming and his rushing off to the Hamptons to lick his wounds. Or have Gina do it for him.

They've had it out. She knows he's with her. Everything about him—everything about the way he is with her tells her that he is absolutely with her. And it's _stupid_, but a different kind of fire rushes up in her at the very thought of anyone else on the other end of his words. And now she's breaking her own rule with a vengeance. She's tearing at his top buttons and his shirttails, hell bent on reaching skin. Hell bent on leaving evidence.

He's not breaking the rule. There's a single moment when he lets out a string of curses and his hands hover in fists above her elbows. And then he finds his words again and his hands disappear. They snake back behind his body, out of her way. He's sticking to the rule, and she's still the one losing here.

Whatever losing means.

* * *

It's getting worse. In defiance of all laws of everything, it's getting worse. He comes back from a lengthy bathroom trip (and it's a good thing no one is keeping eyes on him, because how bad would _that_ look?), and she wants him again.

Her hair is a disaster and it's driving her crazy. She has no idea where those two hair pins went and the tendrils that escaped are brushing her neck and she can feel his breath stirring them. She can picture his fingers winding through, pulling out the rest of the pins, one by one, and she _wants _him.

He's not helping. The look he's giving her says he's thinking exactly the same thing and he's _not _helping.

It's getting worse. It's not just the hair. It's not just the look he's giving her. He's found something and he can't resist telling her. He can't wait to tell her. He's puffed up and pleased with his new discovery and his buttons are a little off center and the thread isn't quite right, and she just _wants_ him.

She wonders if there's something wrong with her. This _cannot_ be normal. She'll worry about normal later, though, because there's apparently a mostly empty machine room off the beaten path and she wants him _now_.

He looks surprised and maybe a little dazed. He thought this was just an innocent field trip. Maybe. Maybe not so innocent. With his his stare heavy on her back and now his lips brushing her shoulder blade, how innocent could it be?

Dazed or not, by the time they're stumbling through the door, he's fully committed to the mission. She hears her own voice. Short, sharp orders that she hardly needs to give, because he's right there half a second before she gives them.

But then he's ignoring her. _Ignoring _some pretty specific orders. And _. . . oh _. . . not ignoring, just taking his sweet time. The bastard is smiling, and she'd like to kill him just as soon as she's done with him because she just heard something snap and that's almost certainly going to be a problem. Later. _Later._

It's dark. Just a strip of light coming in from under the door, but she can feel him smiling. She can hear it in his broken whispers against her ribs, her hip, the crease of her thigh. And somewhere beneath the frantic haze of _now_, and _right there, _and_ God, Castle, _she's a mess. Her heart stutters with warmth and affection and gratitude and she's a mess.

He's the most . . . attentive man she's ever been with. He leads, he follows, he listens, and he ignores her and strings her patiently along when he has a better idea. And she'd die before admitting it, but he is absolutely _full_ of good ideas when it comes to this.

He's also strangely without ego about it. _Mostly without ego,_ she corrects herself as a particularly throaty moan escapes her and she feels his smile turn smug. There's too much delight in him for ego, really.

He likes sex and he loves that she does, too. There's no push and pull about that. No games about him wanting and her withholding and she's been down that road before with men who were vaguely suspicious about the fact they weren't always having to talk her into it.

There's none of that with him, and he comes away from every night and day, every stolen moment . . . she can't describe it. She'd need him for that. She'd need him to have any hope of describing it and doing the feeling any justice at all, but she's a mess and its not like she can just ask.

He's . . . delighted. The word makes her squirm, but it's the best she can come up with. Every time, he's just pleased as hell with every new discovery about her body. About his own. About the way they fit and move together. He's just . . . delighted every time.

She can't really blame him. She's pretty damned delighted herself.

* * *

She's a mess.

She needs him out of here. She needs _her_ out of here and both of them in a location with a door that locks and furniture not intended for breaking suspects and/or covered in dusty drop cloths. But for right now, he has to go, because he can't seem to stop staring at her chest.

Just the staring would be bad enough on its own, but it's worse than that. The look on his face swings wildly from abject lust at her bra-lessness to cringing guilt over the whole thing. He keeps making sympathetic noises, and really, Castle: Partners do not ask partners about chafing. At least not in the workplace.

He also keeps rummaging through her office supplies and looking up at her with that damned triumphant look every time he has a new master plan for repairing the broken clasp. If people weren't already wondering what the hell is up with them today, they're definitely curious about the near-constant stream of _No, Castle_s now.

He's got to go. That's all there is to it, and she doesn't have the time or the patience to explain that it's not a punishment.

She just needs him gone, and now is better than later. Because she also needs to go to the bathroom and spend some quality time scratching the hell out of her own chest. She has some serious doubts about the sweater's 100% cashmere label and half a mind to take it up with the manufacturer. Assuming she doesn't bleed out from self-inflicted wounds first.

Right now, what she needs most is him gone.

* * *

She finally orders him. She manufactures a scene, and in full view and earshot of everyone, she tells him he has no focus, that he's messing with her investigation, and he has to go. He does. After a stunned moment of absolutely everyone looking uncomfortable, he heads for the elevator.

She tries to catch his eye. She has a plan. It's already in the works, and if he could be bothered to stop staring at his shoes like a puppy who's just seen his person pull out the big suitcase for a long trip, he'd realize that.

It's possible that all these cloak-and-dagger make out sessions are making him stupid. There's a pattern. In retrospect, there's a definite pattern. First he forgets to take the price tag off the damned scarf, and then he's dumb enough to point out exactly how much disposable income he has for things like emergency hickey coverage.

_Then_ he questions her scouting ability and commitment to covert ops. And it did take three increasingly obvious hints before he clued into the plan to meet up down in Robbery. And maybe if he had clued into _that_ earlier, things might not have gotten so urgent and there'd have been no need for emergency sewing kits and suspicious lengths of time spent locked in bathroom stalls. And the bra clasp . . . well, she's not thinking about that because if the game isn't up already, it will be if she shoves her hand up her own sweater and starts scratching furiously in the middle of the bullpen.

The point is, he is definitely getting stupider. The brilliant mind of Richard Castle is losing some of its edge. Whether it's exhaustion or something about the ever-present fog of lust, she has no idea. What matters right now is that he is clueless about the plan. Which means she needs to get _out _of there, and Esposito is practically wearing that kid around his neck, and she is _not_ feeding his adolescent fantasies by making a braless appearance anywhere near him.

She thinks about finding Ryan, making her excuses, and beating a quick retreat. But even over the constant drumming of _now now now_ through her blood, she knows she needs to make sure everything is squared away with Espo first. That he's got this.

She finds them together anyway and the kid, for once, is nowhere in sight.

"Hey, boys," she says and it's not casual. It's breathy and urgent and not casual at all. She asks herself how much she cares and the answer is _not much_. "Where are we with everything?"

The two of them exchange a look. She'd love to knock their heads together, but a particularly vicious wave of prickling sweeps over her midsection just then.

"Under control, Beckett," Esposito says as he turns away from her.

Ryan's jaw twitches and she can tell—she can _tell_—that he's just dying to take advantage of Esposito's set up, but some instinct for self preservation turns it into a nervous cough and he rearranges his face more carefully.

"Good," she says evenly. "Good. I'm gonna head out of here for the night then. Enjoy your sleepover, Javi."

"You too, Beckett," Esposito calls over his shoulder.

"Yeah, you too," Ryan echoes.

If she didn't have a plan—if Castle weren't so stupid that he didn't realize she has a plan—she would _so _be kicking both their asses right now.

* * *

She makes a mental note to hire Jeff if she ever needs a get-away driver. He's smart, an absolute master of rush-hour Manhattan traffic, and, really, the precinct should have him in for a seminar on completely neutral body language. He hasn't asked a single question or indicated that it is in any way odd that they're madly circling the block looking for Castle. Jeff is definitely her guy for _Italian Job_-style capers.

She claps a hand over her eyes when she realizes how very Castle this train of thought is. They're in real trouble if they're both getting stupider. And speaking of stupid, where the hell _is _he?

She'd waited until Jeff was in place before kicking Castle out. By the time she made it out to the car, she should have been greeted by a barrage of questions followed by immediate compliance with the "no talking" order she planned on issuing. But the back seat had been distressingly empty and Jeff had solemnly assured her that Castle had not come out of the building.

He's sulking. He has to be sulking somewhere because he is _stupid_. He's probably sitting in a stairwell like a _child_ taking pleasure in defying her.

She's just about to throw open the door and march back into the precinct to hunt him down when Jeff taps on the glass. Her head snaps toward the front door of the precinct and there he is. There's Castle.

She laughs outright. He's _definitely_ sulking. She half expects him to shake his fist up at the building, but the fight goes out of him and he scoots out of the flow of pedestrian traffic to fiddle with his phone. His head keeps popping up and he looks both directions like he's trying to decide something.

She clenches her teeth and she's just about to go get him when Jeff taps the intercom and placidly suggests that he'll get Mr. Castle's attention. She thanks him. Sighs and leans back into the seats. That's a better idea. A much better idea, given that cops are streaming out of the precinct, too. It's not much of a plan if she gets caught yanking Castle into the backseat of a town car.

She cracks the street side window a fraction of an inch. The rush hour drone grates on her nerves, and she panics when she sees Castle dive into the flow of traffic and move rapidly out of sight. But Jeff's voice cuts through the bustle, and if she presses herself to the window, she can just see Castle from the elbows down. He's pulled up short in the middle of the sidewalk and she idly hopes that he doesn't get taken out by a mob of commuters.

Jeff has him. Sort of has him. Because he's asking questions again and what is _wrong_ with him? Why isn't he just getting in the damned _car_ already?

She reaches up and fumbles with the knot at the nape of her neck. She unwinds the scarf. For what, she doesn't know. It's not like she can lasso him with it. She just wants him to stop asking questions and get in the damned car, but he's stage whispering now. She hears the word "hostage" and makes a note to have a conversation about his brain damage sometime later tonight. Much later tonight.

She yanks at the door handle and leads with one foot. He's wandered close enough that she's able to plant a boot, get him by the elbow, and duck his head through the door. She throws herself backward and pulls him with her. The momentum carries the door closed and she has him where she wants him.

He's babbling about something. She should probably be offended that he's even capable of babbling, given that she's shimmying her way into a more comfortable position on his lap. For now she ignores him and concentrates on her knot. She feels him relax. Feels the exact minute that he is 100% on board with the plan and she grins at him.

"So it _is _a hostage situation." He grins back.

"Never said it wasn't, Castle."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So. Remember when this was a one-shot? Good times. Good times.

This is jadedromantic13's fault. I have a job, you know. YOU ALL HAVE TO STOP MAKING THE PRETTY PEOPLE TALK IN MY HEAD. No, seriously. Thank you everyone for the nice reviews.

I suppose this also comes of a desire to redeem both canon Ryan for his 48-month record cockblocking streak AND to give disturbing sex-den-dwelling Ryan from Silent Night, Ferret Night a shot at redemption, too.

If you don't know the cartoon, you can find it at bit dot ly slash YrnQq2

So cute!

* * *

It was supposed to be funny. It still _is_ funny to Esposito, apparently. He's making money hand over fist on oddball bets today, but Ryan feels bad for them. They have their good days and their bad days and then their days like these when they're out of step with each other. Days when the air around them crackles and everyone else has a sudden desire for popcorn and a ringside seat.

He wishes everyone—almost everyone (_hopefully_ only almost everyone)—didn't know. It was different when it was all speculation. Will they, won't they, are they already, when the hell would they finally and so on. That was fun. Like solving a case, but without someone having to die.

Well . . . probably without someone having to die. Sometimes Castle reminds him of the kitten prancing around a construction site in the old cartoons while the bulldog babysitter chases along behind, saving him from one disaster after another.

It's all less fun now. Now that he definitely knows and almost everyone else _probably _knows and Gates definitely can't know (unless she already knows and is pretending she doesn't know) . . . anyway, it's less fun now. Now he feels like the bulldog babysitter.

He feels like the bulldog babysitter and that scarf is an I-Beam dangling from a crane and they're about to blindly crawl off the end of it and plummet to disaster. _Plummet_.

It's not just him. However much the guys like to give him grief about being in touch with his feminine side, it's not just him. It's a nice scarf. Good with her coloring and goes with the sweater, but it's not fooling anyone. Everybody knows what's under the scarf, and it's days like this that he wishes he didn't know any of it.

He's happy for them. Of course he's happy for them. But it's nerve wracking to be one of the few who _knows _officially.

He's no gossip, but he still comes in for a lot of hedging and not a little bald-faced lying when someone asks point blank. That's been happening a lot lately. They're slipping. After eight months, you'd think it would level off a little, but apparently not. They're slipping.

And it's not just things like the scarf itself—and by the way, he'd kept his mouth shut about that: It was Esposito who'd called hickey first—it's things like Beckett missing the trash can when she tossed the price tag. He'd caught it before anyone else could find it (and it was blind luck that it was LT who caught him flushing it; LT doesn't ask questions; Ryan wishes everyone could be like LT), but what if he hadn't? There's only one thing in the bullpen today that could possibly have that kind of price tag.

And even if they didn't already know? Well, that "whispered" argument sealed it for a bunch of people.

So probably almost everyone knows, but they don't need to know the kind of money Castle can drop on spur-of-the-moment things like that scarf. Beckett doesn't need that kind of talk about why she's with Castle. She doesn't deserve that. Neither does Castle.

So he lies for them when it comes to that. Because it's no one's business. Because they're his family. Because the stakes are higher than he thinks most of the gawkers, even Esposito, realize. He lies for them, but he doesn't like it.

Sometimes he wishes he didn't know.

* * *

She's not wrong. Beckett isn't wrong about the . . . features of this particular interrogation room. He and Jenny have made good use of it more than once on her "teacher institute" days. Lots of people have. But he and Jenny are old hat and Beckett and Castle aren't lots of people.

He also has reason to suspect that maybe he and Jenny haven't fully explored quite _all_ the room's features. He really wishes he didn't have recent, pretty compelling evidence leading him to suspect that. He really, _really_ wishes he didn't. But he makes the best of it and files the suspicion away for future reference.

In the mean time, he stands guard.

The problem is that people know about Castle and Beckett, but they don't _know_ and they _hate_ that. They hate not knowing for sure, and that makes them do crazy things. Crazy things like follow Beckett down this particular hallway when they know full well that she can and would kill any one of them without remorse for prying into her personal life. And Lanie would cheerfully and truthfully list cause of death as suicide.

So he stands guard.

It's a good thing that Javier is all over this case. Castle can't take his eyes off Beckett. Specific areas of Beckett. And she clearly has no attention to spare, either. So Ryan is camped out at this end of the hall for the foreseeable future, running interference with the nosier and more death-wish-prone members of Homicide and a few from Robbery. What the hell are the Robbery guys even _doing_ up here? Anyway, he's running interference, Castle and Beckett are either fighting or making up or both, so it's good that Esposito has this one.

Ryan makes a mental note that interrogation four is _pretty_ soundproof, but not as soundproof as one might hope. He makes a mental note and tries to think of other things. Quieter, other things that won't keep him up nights.

He's never been big on psychology. He thinks it's just a lot of fancy talk to state the obvious. But that whole Primal Scene thing? Yeah, Freud might've been on to something there.

* * *

All he can really do is scowl. He's tried ignoring the comments. He's tried redirecting. With the cases they're all theoretically working. With other precinct gossip. But every single one of them is like a dog with a bone, so all he can do is scowl.

It's kind of pointless, his scowl. Beckett has her glare fully deployed and they just keep coming at her anyway. He wonders when knowing about her and Castle became something worth dying over to these people. If she does snap and kill someone it's not on him. He can't bulldog babysit the whole precinct.

Castle really isn't helping. He's still having staring issues, but now he's getting in on the glare action, too. It's just as pointless as Ryan's own scowl. Neither of them has it when it comes to being menacing, but Castle's giving it the old college try.

It gets worse with every comment. Ryan doesn't blame him. The comments are pretty ridiculous and they just keep coming, but Castle's version of the glare has no effect at all. He looks like he's doing a bad Esposito impression, and Ryan has a terrible feeling he's about to do something stupid like try to defend Beckett's honor.

That would be bad. Really bad for Castle, who'd be dead, but also bad for Beckett, who'd feel guilty. Eventually she'd feel guilty. Even if Lanie still ruled it a suicide.

Castle's sad imitation glare gets really alarming around the time the word "lubricant" comes up. Ryan thinks about shooting himself in the foot to escape the whole situation, but Castle is a friend, and friends don't let friends attempt suicide by cop. Especially not suicide by girlfriend cop.

So he does the only thing he can think of: He casually mentions that one end of Robbery is practically a ghost town, thanks to the remodeling. Beckett's glare takes a different turn entirely. It's her sexy glare.

_Oh, God. _She has a _sexy _glare. He recognizes his boss's sexy glare and now he'll never be able to _un_recognize it. Recognizing his boss's sexy glare has almost certainly become part of his daily life.

But at least Beckett is getting out of there. She's stalking off toward the elevator. Maybe when she goes, he'll be able to put it out of his mind at least. The sexy glare and everything.

Nope. There it is. Sexy glare.

He wonders if it's too late to pursue a lower stress career like fire jumping.

* * *

The janitorial staff knows. The janitorial staff is in on a number of the stranger bets and now their money is burning a hole in Ryan's pocket until he can hand it off to Esposito. He does _not _want to think about what insider knowledge might have led to them placing those bets, but the fact that they're in on the least secret secret in all of New York works in Ryan's favor right now. Because he needs to borrow a "Closed for Cleaning" cone and Frank is motivated to lend it to him.

He thinks the cone might be enough—that he might actually be able to get some work done if there's any to do—but he's three steps from the men's room door when it starts. The muttering. Castle's a pretty observant guy, but apparently he hasn't noticed that muttering really _carries _in a public rest room.

Ryan can't quite make out the words. He doesn't _want _to make out the words. But he also doesn't want anyone else to make out the words. He would like there to be a lot less making out in his work life in general. He doesn't want anyone else to know that Castle has locked himself in a bathroom stall for the last 25 minutes. It just . . . looks bad. Even if the muttering sounds like nonspecific annoyance.

_Nonspecific annoyance._ No details of any kind. That's Ryan's story and he's sticking to it.

He leans against the wall a few feet away from the bathroom door and listens. Listens for approaching footsteps. He is _not _listening to Castle's definitely nonspecific, annoyed mutterings. A few guys approach and he pretends like he was about to use the men's room and only just saw the cone.

He makes small talk to cover the muttering and suddenly finds himself trapped in a conversation about Beckett's hair. Beckett's "sex hair" as Sadowski keeps calling it. Sadowski is apparently oblivious to Ryan's scowl. He makes a note to ask Javi for some scowling pointers.

What feels like 100 years later, Sadowski's bladder finally ends the conversation. Ryan adds "saved by Sadowski's bladder" to the list of things he doesn't want to think about and cocks a hopeful ear toward the bathroom door. But Castle is still muttering. It's been half an hour and he is _still _muttering.

Ryan wonders if Frank is going to want his cone back at some point. Doesn't he have some bathrooms he really _should _be cleaning? Isn't _anyone _working?

Working on _work_ work. Castle's working hard at something and whether he likes it or not, Ryan is making out some of the muttering now. Every third mutter is a pained _Ow _and something small keeps clattering to the floor. He's sewing buttons. Castle is sewing buttons and there's another thing that Ryan can't un-know.

He tries to make his mind go blank, but there's another clatter and clunk as Castle roots around the floor for a button and he distinctly hears something about "hair pins." Ryan tells himself he's _not _thinking about sex hair or sex glare or the fact that hair and glare rhyme. He's just not.

He's just not.

* * *

He's sweating through his shirt, and that gel Jenny bought him does _not_ deliver on the hold it promised. He's a mess and no one has said anything. He doesn't know if it's a guy thing or a married thing. He doesn't know if he should be flattered or offended.

He drops into his desk chair for and settles for relieved. They're out of the way.

It was a mad scramble when Frank showed up wanting his cone back just when Sadowski reared his ugly head for the second time. Sadowski should really have his prostate checked. Of course, Sadowski's probably thinking the same thing about him. If he's lucky that's what's Sadowski's thinking.

If he's not lucky some _really _strange bets are about to start showing up. He wonders what a reputation as a swinger will do for his street cred and quickly adds it to the giant list of things he wants not to have to wonder about. Along with Sadowski's prostate.

Lucky or not, chasing off Sadowski had been the easy part. Relatively easy once Frank decided to pick up on his pleading look and join in the effort. His detailed description of what, exactly, spewed out of the "broken sewer pipe" might have been overkill, but it got the job done, but Frank is apparently in it to win it. Sadowski had headed for the other men's room looking a little desperate.

But Frank really did need the cone, and that meant Castle needed _not _to be muttering and sewing and whatever. But he also needed not to be in the bullpen, because the bulldog babysitter needed a break. They all needed a break.

Ryan had almost forgotten about the machine room. Apparently so had everyone else. The trick to the lock still worked and it was still empty other than a dark electrical switching station and a couple of inches of dust. And it's out of the way—way out of the way—and the scuttlebutt from Frank is that Castle and Beckett are not picky about ambiance.

It's a miracle no one had caught him surreptitiously banging on the ductwork. That no one even wondered about what had to be really weird sounds working their way through the ductwork. Apparently no one around her wondered about anything that wasn't Castle-and-Beckett related.

Except Castle. But of course, he was wondering for Castle-and-Beckett related reasons. And he'd almost gotten lost. Ryan had had to double back around and now Hickey thinks he's training for a half marathon and that guy will _never _shut up about the benefits of barefoot running and those really gross toe shoes.

But mission accomplished: They're out of the way.

For now, they're out of the way.

* * *

He might just let them kill each other.

Jenny would be sad to lose her friends. He might eventually be sad to lose them. But right now, letting them kill each other seems pretty reasonable because Beckett is not wearing a bra.

And it's not like he knows this because he spends a lot of time staring at his boss's chest. He knows this because (a) Castle spends a lot of time staring at his boss's chest and right now he is walking into things because he can't stare at anything else, and (b) Beckett is wriggling her shoulders and not-at-all-stealthily rubbing her back and her front against the murder board, the bulletin board, the edge of the height-appropriate stair, and so on.

Beckett is not wearing a bra and the two of them could not be more obvious and he can probably make Jenny understand why he _had _to let them kill each other.

The problem is that Beckett will take Castle out in a matter of minutes and then they're back to dead Castle, eventually guilty Beckett, and probably a _lot _of paperwork if it happens in the precinct. And braless Beckett being interrogated. Even if he armed Castle to give him a fighting chance . . .

He's rifling through Beckett's desk. Castle is. He keeps holding things up, looking hopeful. And Beckett keeps shooting him down. Not literally. Not yet.

Which isn't to say that Ryan's hand wasn't on his own weapon when Castle asked about chafing in something he seemed to think was a whisper. But Beckett never even went for her own piece. She must really love him.

Damn. He can't let them kill each other, can he?

* * *

He pokes the bear. He doesn't feel good about it, but something's got to give here. So he pokes the bear.

He waits for the perfect accomplice to present himself. It has to be a guy, but it has to be the _right _guy. LT's no good. Castle knows him. Knows LT isn't the type, and he won't take the bait. Sadowski is too . . . _ew_. Esposito and "Monster" pass by, probably on yet another soda run; he briefly considers the kid and rejects the idea.

Weaver steps out of the elevator and Ryan quickly scans his memory for everything he knows about the Robbery Detective. He's new. Young and generally a nice guy from what Ryan remembers. And he likes Beckett's elephants. _Literal_ elephants. Desk elephants. He'd asked about them earlier.

Beckett's just sliding back behind her desk and Castle's leaning in and the timing is perfect. Ryan grabs Weaver by the elbow and kicks his own wastebasket. The clang does its job. Castle and Beckett do a synchronized swivel toward the noise.

Weaver looks startled as Ryan shakes his head urgently. He leans in.

"Don't ask about the elephants," Ryan hisses.

Weaver's eyes dart toward Beckett's desk and it looks for all the world like he's staring at her chest.

Castle's eyes narrow and he starts to rise from his chair. Beckett yanks on his wrist and he sits back down. Hard.

Weaver gives Ryan a panicked look and heads right back to the elevator.

Beckett says about five words to Castle and he skulks off toward the break room. She makes a phone call. It's quick, but she looks relieved. Still annoyed. Still in sexy glare mode, but relieved. She has a plan. She has a plan that doesn't involve him and Ryan thinks it's about damned time.

Castle comes back, but he's subdued. Beckett dials her glare back a little and Ryan thinks they might all live to see another day.

Sometimes you just have to poke the bear.

* * *

Maybe he shouldn't have poked the bear. Maybe she should have involved him in her plan. She should have involved someone. Like Castle, maybe. Not that he's trying to place blame, but one of them should or shouldn't have done something and Ryan hopes it's not him.

Whoever should or shouldn't have done something, it's game over. After that scene, there isn't cop in the precinct who doesn't _know_ know that they're together.

Esposito has payouts to make. Lots and lots of payouts. He sends Joey on an errand to Robbery's vending machine for Funyuns, with a very confused and timid Weaver escorting. At least Javier recognizes that making book on his friends' private lives doesn't fall under the heading of setting a good example.

Beckett looks worried. No more sexy glare. Just worried. She should be. Because _everyone _knows now. Except maybe Gates. Hopefully not Gates.

But that's not what Beckett's worried about. She's worried about Castle, so why doesn't she just execute her plan, whatever it is? Have one last hurrah somewhere without dust and suspect funk and damaged clothing. Somewhere without the vultures circling overhead. Because it's over.

Sadowski raises his hands in an over-the-top gesture of surrender as Ryan storms by him on his way through the door. It looks like the man with the probable prostate trouble is Esposito's last customer.

"How can you do it, Javi?" Ryan's voice is quiet and it catches his partner's attention quicker than yelling ever could. "This is it. Don't you get that? _Everyone _knows now. Castle's gone. Who knows what'll happen to Beckett. Two disciplinary actions in one year? She's probably gone, too."

Esposito's face darkens, but he doesn't say anything. Not right away. Ryan's seen that look once before, but he stands his ground.

Esposito stands his for minute, then blinks. "You done?"

"For now," Ryan shoots back.

"So I can say something, then. Because you're done."

"Yeah," he says simply. "I think I'm done."

"Ok then. So you wanna tell me if you're mad about them breaking up or mad because you didn't put money on it like all those lucky winners did?"

Esposito gestures to the bullpen. A dozen guys or more are milling around, some of the sulking, some of them not-so-subtly fanning out their cash.

"Break up?" Ryan looks from the bullpen to his partner and back again. "They broke up. They _broke up!_"

"How can you do it Javi?" Esposito mimics, pitching his voice high and nasal. He shakes his head. "The hell's wrong with you?"

Ryan drops into a chair, weak with relief. The bulldog babysitter is officially off duty.

A sudden silence has them both sitting up. The knots of winners and losers break up and guiltily drift away as Beckett strides through the bullpen, oblivious.

"Hey, boys."

Ryan thinks that maybe the bulldog babysitter can't knock off just yet. She's anxious and they don't want anyone thinking she's running after Castle to kiss and make up.

She gives them both a strange look. Like she knows something's off but she doesn't care. "Where are we with everything?"

Ryan looks to Esposito who gives the slightest shake of his head. One of them is going to have to have a talk with the two of them about clandestine nookie in the workplace. Ryan thinks it'll probably be him. He and Jenny may not have taken full advantage of interrogation four, but they've also never been caught. Old hat or not, it's more than anyone else on the team can say.

Esposito spins in his chair. "Under control, Beckett."

At that very moment, every single thing Ryan wishes he didn't know pops into his head and the set up is almost irresistible. _Almost. _Because that is _not_ Beckett's sexy glare and Lanie will rule it a suicide. He clears his throat.

"Good," she says and it's close to normal. That's good. Close to normal will be good to work with when they have their clandestine nookie talk. "Good. I'm gonna head out of here for the night then. Enjoy your sleepover, Javi."

"You too, Beckett," Esposito calls over his shoulder.

He can't. He just can't resist. Not after the day he's had.

"Yeah, you too," he echoes.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: It's possible I have a problem. Like, a serious break-with-reality problem. Because I'm obsessed with Under the Influence screencaps and the incredible morphing scarf tying. I have absolutely come to believe that Caskett are going at it furiously in the precinct during the course of that episode. In honor of that, I couldn't just leave them in the back seat of the limo.

For Cora Clavia, who begged me repeatedly to get them out of the back seat. And hopefully Jessie/Carto is not tired of this little episode fix just yet.

This chapter is T.

See Underneath—A Going Under Epilogue for the M-rated finale to this story.

* * *

She is not putting her sweater back on. That much is clear. She feels strongly on this point, and given that she is topless and straddling his lap, he is inclined to submit to her demands. So she's commandeering his jacket. That's the upshot of the argument and—praise the lord—it may actually get them out of the back seat.

Of course, calling it an argument is overstating the case when one party is pinned to the backseat by the (_topless_) other party and has extremely limited use of his hands. Extremely limited, but not limited enough for the other (_topless_) party's tastes.

That's part of the argument, or _"argument" _as he likes to think of it. Because apparently his creative use of his hands led to the . . . incident . . . and all of a sudden she's worried about Jeff being traumatized.

As if Jeff were not constitutionally incapable of being traumatized. As if Jeff's children were not enjoying high-end orthodontic work and top-tier schooling thanks to the fact that he considers it his sacred duty not to be traumatized by anything they might get up to in the back of his limo.

Although even Jeff might falter if he could hear her now. Because now she's all moans and disjointed curses and occasional teeth. (And, of course, _topless._) Apparently the news that the whole incident was easily 70% her is not winning him the _"argument."_ Not that he has any idea what _"winning"_ might look like under these circumstances, but sloppily creative insults and threats are probably not it.

But it was totally her. At _least _70% her. Not that he wouldn't be thrilled to take credit—it was pretty amazing, after all—but by the time she hauled him into the back seat, deprived him of the use of his hands, and tore her sweater up over her head, she was already pretty worked up.

So worked up, in fact, that he wasn't much more than a prop. A very enthusiastic prop, committed to making the most of the limited use of his hands, but still. And by the way, she wasn't complaining about _that_ during the incident. She was vigorously and vociferously _not _complaining about his hands.

But now she's commandeering his jacket and that's a great idea because the lining is silk and he has never seen her so angry at an inanimate object—not even the espresso machine on a _really_ bad day—as she is at her own sweater right now. So a little silk on skin is not the worst idea she's had lately. Of course, he has even better ideas regarding her skin if they ever get out of the damned car, so he is all for commandeering.

As far as movement on the commandeering goes, her execution could use some work. She thinks she can somehow get the jacket off him without untying his hands. She's pretty adamant that he can't have his hands back. Apparently they're trouble. At least that's what he's been able to glean from in between the moans and the curses. Granted, a little hard to follow (especially given that she's topless), but he's pretty sure that's the take-home message.

So she doesn't want him to have his hands back. She's all bossy and irrational about it. It's kind of adorable coming from someone who can't even sit upright at the moment. Or it _would _be adorable if she weren't failing to sit upright pretty much all over him. That factoid and the dirty, broken little monologue she has going on right now are rapidly moving the situation from "adorable" into territory dangerously close to another incident. An incident that might complicate her commandeering his jacket.

So . . . no more incidents for the time being. No more incidents until there's a door he can lock behind them. No more incidents. _Right_.

He has to get them out of this damned car.

* * *

His jacket is huge on her. Of course it's huge. Even with the sleeves rolled back in giant cuffs, her fingertips are barely visible, and the voluminous hem flaps almost to her knees. It should be ridiculous. By rights, she should look like some sweet, ridiculous kid wrapped up in someone's hand-me-downs.

She doesn't. She doesn't look ridiculous. Or sweet. She looks _hot. _And a little scary. And despite the fact they are finally out of the car and currently strolling down a Manhattan street in the middle of rush hour, he may have to reset the "Minutes Since Last Incident" sign to zero. Again.

It's partly the scarf. It's wound around her neck once and the dangling ends are completely failing to fill in the gap between the lapels she's clutching together and it's somehow _worse_ for his concentration than her being topless. It's all flashes of blue fabric and bare, creamy skin. Creamy except for that one little . . . well, not little. It's not little at all. Its not-littleness has been pretty firmly established at this point, and it's hardly the scarf's fault that it's not really hiding anything.

Poor little scarf.

_Poor little scarf? _Oh,_ God. _He's attached to it. Metaphorically. Metaphorically at the moment, anyway. Who knows what the future holds. Especially when she has that look on her face. But he's definitely developed a ridiculous attachment to it in less than a day. He can't help it. It's got . . . _history. _History and bare skin right _there _underneath it. The Little Scarf That Could.

But it's mostly just her. The hotness. And the scariness. It's the squared off lines of the jacket and the controlled chaos of her hair barely brushing the collar. All those pins just waiting for him to hunt them down and liberate them. It's the swing of the hem and the stretch of tailored fabric over her thighs as she eats up the sidewalk between the curb and the door in long, determined strides.

It's the fact that she's still working the bossy thing and her land legs are back. They are absolutely back, and while she might have been concerned about Jeff's potential trauma once upon a time, now that the driver has gone on his merry, well-compensated way, she seems to have very limited amounts of give a shit left for anyone she might currently traumatizing, looking like _that._ Yeah, as far as trauma goes, they're all on their own. Random New Yorkers, fellow tenants, local wild life. They're all on their own when it comes to Beckett-induced trauma.

He's certainly on his own. Literally on his own, because her land legs are back and she's leaving him in the dust here, utterly unconcerned. Utterly unconcerned about the fact that their last _incident _was more than a little one-sided and she's commandeered his jacket and, _fine, _yes, it's that lull between books that means any kind of run-in with the press on the streets is unlikely, but still_. Still, _she might at least show a little concern for his potential trauma if he winds up on page 6 with a bright blue sweater clutched awkwardly in front of him.

She stops short and whirls toward him and he swears she was reading his mind. Because her eyes are blazing with this mixture of amusement and danger and _Jesus_ she is _hot. _(And scary.)She looks him up and down and he would absolutely _welcome_ a candid shot on page 6 right about now. He might actually come out of that alive.

She stops short and the rush hour world makes way for her. Of course it does. She looks him up and down. "You comin', Castle?"

She doesn't care about his trauma _at all_.

* * *

The stairs had seemed like such a good idea. Well, not a good idea. Today, there are fantastic ideas and really terrible ideas and absolutely nothing in between. But they'd seemed like the lesser of two evils or something.

Because the elevator—any enclosed space whatsoever—had just seemed like such a _bad _idea with that look on her face and his jacket swallowing her up and the scarf failing do anything other than draw attention to everything it was theoretically supposed to be covering up. And, really, he thought they both could probably stand to bleed off a little energy.

So the stairs had seemed like the lesser of two evils and the evidence was with him and he'd gotten a little . . . insistent. That was probably a mistake. She's not a fan of insistent from him, even when she's not all . . . _this. _And she is all _this. _She has been all _this _for going on ten hours now and it may just kill him in this very stairwell.

If it does, he has only himself to blame, because he should have picked up on it. The potential for evil. He should definitely picked up on it when he informed her that they were taking the stairs and she whipped around like she might actually devour him on the spot. He should have picked up on it when she was suddenly, terrifyingly agreeable. When all of a sudden she was plastered up against his side and making a beeline for the stairwell door.

The thing is, she's fast. Ten hours into this, he's trying to remember important things like how feet work and whether his will is up to date, and she is _fast. _And he failed to account for railings. Railings and her recent obsession with knots. In retrospect, the stairs were bound to be trouble. _Heh . . . bound. _

So he has only himself to blame for this. Or thank. Or something. In any case, he sees now that this is really his fault. Or he would see it if he could see anything. Seeing is not currently an option, because his eyes are shut tight and he's pretty sure that all the light has left the world permanently and taken all the air with it.

But that's good. All the air being gone is good, because if the air is gone, then no one will hear him scream. And screaming _will_ happen. Screaming is inevitable. Inevitable, because there's a metal safety strip digging into his back and a very dedicated NYPD detective interrogating his lap.

But at least no one will hear him scream.

* * *

He's furious with her. Definitely, completely furious. Not impressed. At some point—a long, _long_ time from now, when she has made this up to him in some very creative ways—he might be impressed. Because she just . . . _vanished_ like a freaking _ninja_ when that door slammed open. But right now, he is furious. Also very concerned about keeping his pants up.

Because he's down another button—and, millionaire author or not, he is going to start fining her—and she has his belt. Which is kind of impressive. In the back of his mind, behind the wall of righteous fury, he knows that it's kind of impressive.

Because she didn't leave him with his belt hanging open, which would have been really hard to explain. She had the presence of mind to go from . . . _that_ . . . directly into some kind of ninja math and correctly determine that there was no time to do his belt up again.

And, ok, it's kind of objectively impressive, because in the time it took him get his feet under him, she managed to not only _do_ the ninja math but act on it before she melted into the shadows. Like a ninja. And here he is: Belt gone, shirttails untucked. And damned if that isn't better than any of the alternatives. _Stupid ninja math._

So maybe he's a little impressed. But he's mostly furious. And flustered. Because of the pants. Because she _took off_ in complete silence and he's not even sure which way she went. Because part of him is wondering if he imagined this whole thing. This whole day. Like maybe he slipped in the shower and hit his head or got electrocuted by the vending machines yesterday and this has all been a coma fantasy.

No, he's back to furious. Because he would not imagine this. He would not imagine her bailing on him in such a critical moment. He would not _fantasize,_ in or out of a coma, about her leaving him and his compromised pants to do damage control with _her _neighbor.

Diagnosis: Furious.

And it is totally beside the point that he knows everyone in the building better than she does. He knows for a _fact_ that did not figure into her ninja math at all. It is also totally beside the point that her being topless underneath what is obviously hisjacket might have been harder to explain than wrinkled shirt tails and a certain . . . lack of focus.

But all of that is completely beside the point. The point is she left him worrying about his pants and trying to extract himself from small talk with Evelyn from across the hall, who is like one hundred and eleven years old. And what is Evelyn doing taking the stairs anyway? What the _hell_ is her one-hundred-and-eleven-year-old self doing bumping her granny cart full of groceries up the damned stairs so there is absolutely no way he can get out of this without offering to help?

_Fine._ He'll help. He will hitch up his compromised pants and help. And _then,_ when Evelyn insists that he come in for a cup of tea or some hard candy or whatever it is one-hundred-and-eleven-year-old ladies do to say thank you, he will calmly say, "No, ma'am, I am afraid that the lovely detective across the hall is in need of some serious and immediate punishment." That's exactly what he'll do.

He grabs Evelyn's cart and fists his free hand around his rapidly retreating waistband. He wonders why anyone ever takes the stairs.

Stairs are just bound to be trouble.

* * *

A/N: Sorry to leave you hanging. If you're up for it, Underneath—A Going Under epilogue is the M-rated finale. Posted as a separate story because of the rating change.


End file.
